


imagine now, if you're mine

by Zekkass



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Crossfaction Romance, Gags, Hand & Finger Kink, Other, PWP, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink, Stuffing, Undressing, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 10:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: Ultra Magnus spots a beautiful medic on the battlefield.





	imagine now, if you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for zeenovos, who wanted Ultra Magnus/Knock Out and a whole bunch of kinks. ;) This was a lot of fun to write, I hope you like it!

"This is disgusting. Couldn't you have found a more scenic place to get shot in?"

"Nngh - try telling that to the COs. Not like I told the Autobots to build an outpost here."

Knock Out's bent over a dismembered wreck of a tank, trying not to think about how difficult this muck will be to pick out of his internals. Even from his perch on the tank's treads he's not safe from this planet's weather: it's raining.

Worse, it's raining _mud._

The sound of an explosion claps from over the ridge, and the tank under him vibrates.

"Hey," Knock Out slaps the tank's plating with a noisy clang. "Hold still or these welds won't hold."

The tank stills, but Knock Out knows it's ready to take off as soon as it can. Stupid battle-charged lughead...

He doesn't say anything, lips twisted with frustration as he rips out fused components, performing quick surgery as he disassembles them - with force if needed - and puts them back together, with a minimum of new materials, welding them back into place. It's a hackjob, barely serviceable, but it's the best he can do with the tools on hand.

He _hates_ working as a battlefield medic.

But the job's done, and he straightens up - then yelps as the tank jerks forward, charging over the ridge with a roar - and Knock Out windmills his arms before throwing himself forward, holding onto the railing meant for infantry drones.

"Stop!"

The word is lost in the roar, and they're in combat. Las-fire clears the rain, explosions echo around him, and he's a giant red target on top of this tank.

_He's going to die._

He risks his optics, looking around frantically - according to the planet's magnetic field, north is _that_ way, and the rudimentary map he'd been given indicated that the outpost they were attacking was east, so - 

He lets go of the tank, transforming in midair and gunning it as soon as his wheels hit solid ground.

Mud flies, and he risks sinking, but panic-fueled power gets him moving, shooting across the battlefield and back over the ridge - right into a mud pit.

He transforms, struggles to his pedes, and begins to wade out of it before freezing.

Standing at the end of the pit is a very large, very blue Autobot.

It's looking at him, and it's holding a very, very large hammer.

If the planet's glitched out his compass or misaligned it somehow just so it could plant him in a mudpit and then in the path of certain death he - he doesn't know what he's going to do.

He freezes.

"Medic," he says, then resets his vocalizer and boosts the volume. "Medic. I'm a medic. Don't shoot."

Hammer, gun, he doesn't want to die.

The Autobot narrows its optics, opens its mouth, and - a tank bursts over the ridge, laying down cannon fire as Knock Out throws himself back into the mud.

He's going to spend a year in the washracks when he gets back to the ship, if he survives this - 

Cannon fire stops when there's a crash, and then he can hear the sounds of hand-to-hand combat. Not strictly better, but with the firing stopped he can get up and duck as he sprints in the direction he thinks the ship's in.

Behind him he can hear roaring, but he does _not_ care, the battle's come too close and not a single CO will reprimand him for saving his hide; a medic's more valuable than the idiots who let an Autobot sneak behind the main thrust of the attack.

There - _there's_ the ramp, reinforcements are rolling off and towards the battlefield.

He flashes them all the topography he remembers, locations, the warning that there's a big blue Autobot with a hammer fighting a tank back there.

Then he's inside, and he's done his duty, he's free to go to the nearest washrack and take his time getting this muck out of his systems.

It's a nice thought, at least.

::You're needed in the medical bay,:: comes the order not ten kliks into his scrubbing.

Knock Out scowls at the dirt running off of him in rivulets.

::Yes,:: he sends, grabbing the hose. Inelegant, uncomfortable, he'll be able to get to work in less than half a klik.

Primus, he'd give _anything_ for the war to be over.

//

Ultra Magnus can't let go of the memory: twin headlights, red paint under the brown, a pale face-plate. A _medic._

For the first time since the attack, he's grateful the Decepticons found this outpost. It means they'll be back, and with them, that medic.

What worked once on the battlefield rarely works a second time, so alongside the development of base defense, he devotes time to a personal mission, just for him - because he _wants_ that medic.

He is going to learn that medic's name, and his personal reasons for joining the Decepticon side of the war. Then he's going to talk to him, and find out what he could possibly want.

At least justifying this mission is simple - because his subordinates will ask, and wonder at his new initiative - as all he has to do is cite the presence of only one medic in Forward Outpost 3-Beta.

He reaches for his hammer, checks its mechanisms and circuitry again. It has been orns since he used the stunning function of his favored weapon. It is fitting that he aims to use it against a medic, instead of a criminal or valuable Decepticon - medics are precious, as the war lasts longer and longer.

An errant thought: what that face-plate would look like twisted in ecstasy.

His own face-plates heat at the thought, and he sets it aside as he finishes checking his hammer.

Everything is as prepared as he can make it.

//

Everything goes wrong when the chopper takes off: Twistkick throws up mud and dirt everywhere as he clears the area, and _apparently_ that was all the excuse the Autobot needed to execute a near-perfect ambush.

Knock Out throws himself to the ground, regretting the mud getting into his grill _again._ He's focused on that instead of the fear that he'll be trampled, or worse, alone with an Autobot when the fight dies down.

He risks glancing up, turning his head to get a better look at their attacker. It's big, and has a hammer, and oh - not _again,_ it's the blue one from before.

If Knock Out weren't in mortal danger, he'd admire the skill the Autobot brings to a fight, the grace and skill it uses to swing that hammer around and send jeeps flying before they can transform. He'd admire the swing of those hips, the confident speed of every strike.

If it were an ally, he'd chew it out for attacking most of a unit, with twin tanks transforming while the jeeps get whacked around. There's no way it'll survive, especially when the chopper comes back around with its miniguns spinning up.

So he begins to crawl through the mud, aiming to clear the area and stand ready to repair whoever needs it when the dust settles.

He's not looking when something huge touches his back. A curse leaps from his vocalizer, and then his frame goes rigid, paralyzing bolts shooting through him.

A big hand grabs him by the waist and hauls him up, and oh, oh no, he's looking at a blue aft as the Autobot runs.

Captive, prisoner of war, probably about to be tortured, but indignant rage bubbles up inside of him: _he's been the victim of a hit and run!_

//

Ultra Magnus gets a few knowing looks as he carries the prisoner back to the washracks, but he ignores them as thoroughly as he can. The mission was a success: he's scattered a unit of Decepticons, averted their assault, and stolen their medic.

Their attractive medic, who hasn't struggled at all since the stunner wore off. That could be disturbing, if not for the medic muttering curses every few steps.

In the washracks, Ultra Magus sets him down and turns on the spray.

"...Do you normally clean up your prisoners before you throw them into a cell?"

"I am not placing you in a cell," Ultra Magnus says, holding out a cloth to his prisoner. The mud has to go.

"Execution, then?" Delicate claw-tipped fingers take the cloth.

"No," Ultra Magnus says, watching as a rich red color emerges from under the cover of the mud. He distracts himself by being direct: "What would it take to convince you to change factions?"

"Oh, trade the medic," he says, wiping down a headlight. "That's not all you want, is it?"

Bright red optics meet his own as Ultra Magnus shifts on his pedes, all words forgotten as the object of his attention walks up to him, dripping solvent all over the floor.

That needs to be cleaned, and his medic needs to finish cleaning himself, and - 

A claw touches his chin, slides along it to tap against his cheek. The medic has to push himself up on the apex of his pedes to reach his face.

Details help distract him, keep him from focusing on the slide of solvent down streaked metal, over vents and a grill, over red metal and white.

His tires are attractive too, positioned so he could spin them if he could touch, and - 

"Oh, you have it bad," says the medic. He pats Ultra Magus' chest. "Good news, you picked the right medic. I'm willing to trade my loyalties and frame for the right treatment and respect."

Practical. Ultra Magnus nods, reaching and taking his medic's hand.

"What is your designation?"

A smirk. "Knock Out. And yours is?"

"Ultra Magnus."

The smirk falters. There's a click as his vocalizer resets.

"I hadn't, ah, realized who you were. I suppose the hammer should have given it away."

Or the rank? He has questions about how Decepticons share information in their ranks, but that has to wait.

"Knock Out," he says, considering the name. A solid sound, repeated. The implication of victory, with complex meanings below that. It lacks the polish and quality of a more complex name, but it serves its owner well.

"...Are you going to say anything else?"

He'd taken too long. Ultra Magnus puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Finish cleaning yourself and we'll talk more." And touch more, hopefully. The frame under his hand is warm and far too intriguing.

"Talk," Knock Out says, and he pulls out from under his hand, returning to the washracks. "Start 'talking' to me by helping me reach my back."

Ultra Magnus immediately comes up, more than willing to take another cloth and use it on Knock Out. He's thorough, of course, and together they remove all of the mud and grit from Knock Out's frame. After the solvent comes a second cleaner, then wax, then polish, and Ultra Magnus turns him around so he can _look_ at him.

Knock Out is a work of art with gleaming armor: the reds and whites pop, his frame is sleek and easy to admire, and on top of that it's impossible not to miss how light his armor is.

A medic shouldn't be allowed to get so close to a battlefield with armor this thin, and Ultra Magnus intends to remedy that - but later. Much later.

He forces himself to look away, his face-plates burning as he busies himself with cleaning the floor, tidying up the washracks before escorting Knock Out away to his private quarters.

"I know you want to touch me," Knock Out says. "But I'd like to hear you promise me something."

"What is that?"

"That you won't harm me."

"Of course," Ultra Magnus says. "I do so swear not to harm you." Is this when Knock Out betrays him and reveals a secret weapon or device?

Knock Out nods, frame relaxing marginally.

He doesn't pull out anything, or do anything.

"... I am going to remove your armor," Ultra Magnus says, just to be certain.

"After all of that work?" It's not true objection, and Knock Out lets him approach him and begin to work the seams of the armor.

"You are beautiful," Ultra Magnus murmurs.

"I know," Knock Out says, spreading his arms as Ultra Magnus removes the plating around his arms and shoulders. Stripping him is as easy as cleaning him, as none of the connections are fused or damaged. It'll be easy to reattach them, which is a welcome discovery.

Without the armor Knock Out is frighteningly small and fragile seeming. He's slender and red and white, with kibble protruding to keep the headlights and wheels in their proper locations - after all, that circuitry is too intricate to disconnect from his systems easily.

Knock Out shifts on his pedes, for the moment seemingly off-balance before his panels open with soft clicks.

It would be so easy to simply pick up Knock Out and position him over his spike.

"Not yet," Ultra Magnus murmurs, and he turns from Knock Out to open up a container sitting on his desk. He'd placed it there before his mission, in anticipation of this moment; within is a ball gag, decorative as well as functional.

One of his rare indulgences.

"Will you wear this?" Ultra Magnus asks, turning back and holding it out.

Knock Out's mouth opens and closes before he nods. "Will it affect my vocalizer - ?"

"Yes. As long as it's in position it will prevent you from speaking."

"Who knew the famous Ultra Magnus had a thing for kinky gags?" Knock Out smiles, taking the gag and examining it. It has black straps and a bright pink ball, just a little large for his mouth. "No comm jammers, right?"

"Correct," Ultra Magnus says, gently taking the gag back and fitting it onto Knock Out's head. "Appearance aside, this is useful for preventing prisoners from shouting for help. Deploy it in conjunction with a dampening field and all communications can be terminated."

Knock Out doesn't seem to be listening, optics closing as the catches magnetize to his helm.

He is a picture: delicate protoform, his valve and spike on display, his head tilted back slightly, the gag impossible to miss.

Ultra Magnus touches his chest, over his spark chamber, then slowly draws his fingers down, admiring the give of the protoform. It's warm to the touch, soft, and slightly rubbery. He hasn't had the occasion to linger over it before, let alone on a mech he admires so.

He picks up Knock Out, carrying his delicate frame to the berth, and he sits down, tilting Knock Out so he can watch as he releases his spike - it suits him, and while he will never be as beautiful as Knock Out is, he hopes it appeals to him.

Knock Out looks at his face, then reaches out to run his claw-tips over the tip of his spike, making him shudder.

"Let me spike you," Ultra Magnus asks.

Knock Out curls his fingers, then flutters them. He nods, a glint in his optics.

"Thank you."

He closes his legs, giving Knock Out room to spread his own as he lowers him down, moaning softly as his spike touches the lips of his valve.

Perhaps he should have started by putting his fingers into Knock Out, or rubbing his outer node, but now he cannot hold himself back, can't resist pushing Knock Out down with a steady force that ends with Knock Out arching with a noiseless cry as his valve opens and opens and opens until he's fully seated on Ultra Magnus' spike.

His waist is slender enough that Ultra Magnus can spot a slight bulge in his protoform.

"Oh," Ultra Magnus says. "Oh!"

His fans kick up, Knock Out's fans hum away, and he hardly knows what to focus on, with the heat and the pressure and the pleasant sting of charge as Knock Out's nodes begin to accept what he's offering, and oh - 

Ultra Magnus rocks his hips up, holding Knock Out's hips steady - 

And he can feel where Knock Out's claws dig into his plating, leaving little scratches as he clings for dear life.

"Yes," Ultra Magnus says, even as he reaches, taking one of Knock Out's arms and bringing it up so he can lick at those claw-tips, then along the finger itself, then the palm. Knock Out's buzzing now, squirming on his spike.

A _medic's_ hands - delicate and sensitive and Knock Out jerks, overloading with a hot rush over his spike.

That's one.

Ultra Magnus nips at the junction between index finger and thumb, then licks to the palm, rocking his hips in a steady motion.

It isn't a hard and fast rule, but Ultra Magnus hasn't met many exceptions to it: smaller mechs overload multiple times to a larger mech's one.

His own charge is rising swiftly, but he's still coherent as he lets Knock Out's hand go and leans in to kiss his face-plate, over the optics, around the gag.

Is that clicking he hears, as Knock Out tries to reactivate his vocalizer? He leans back, then takes Knock Out's hips and stands, holding him steady as he begins to thrust in earnest, deep strokes that can probably be heard outside of the room - 

It feels good and good and - 

He must be calling out, his own charge up, he must be shouting - he overloads, temporarily whiting out and coming back to find himself on the berth, Knock Out cradled against him, his spike just barely inside of him.

He reaches down slowly, feels over Knock Out's torso, smiles to feel that bulge of transfluid. He gently rubs it, then down, rubbing Knock Out's outer node, feeling him squirm.

::Not - not sure I can do a third - ::

"Let go," Ultra Magnus orders, voice deliberately pitched low, so it thrums through his frame.

Knock Out tosses his head, flailing as he overloads for a third and final time - and he collapses on Ultra Magnus, out.

Ultra Magnus removes his gag, examining it before he shifts Knock Out, finally letting his spike slide out of him. He carefully nudges his valve panel closed, temporarily trapping the transfluid inside.

Only then does he arrange himself on the berth properly, curled around Knock Out.

Only then does he let himself drift into a perfectly satisfied recharge.


End file.
